I Want

I want to say I love myself.

I want to stake a claim upon a piece of territory as yet untouched.

I want to issue the next grand proclamation, the next “man on the moon” statement, about and for myself.

But I won’t.

 

To say I love myself is to say I love all I am, all I’ve been and all I will become.

It is a promise between who I am now and who I’ll ever be. And I… I cannot keep promises.

 

I think myself a liar. The words that pass my lips often become false as they leave my tongue. As they fall from my lips and reverberate amongst the walls and then reach an ear, they become stained in falsehoods.

I promise I’ll write.

I promise I’ll wait.

I promise I won’t touch.

I promise…

It is hard to say why I am this way. My prescription says it is a side effect of my natural hopelessness, yet I feel as if it is a side effect of myself. Because I am incapable of saying “I love myself,” I cannot speak truths. Because I cannot speak truths, I cannot claim to love myself without it being false. Because.

There is no answer. Right, wrong, black and white.

When someone asks if I want tea or coffee, I do not say. I cannot say. When they ask, I feel as if they are living in a yes, no world while I am living in a gray area. I want both, yet I want neither.

The moment often passes, they pass, and still, I am in that limbo where every guarantee is false.

They never encompass the whole truth.

She is a River

She is a river with emotional fluidity.

An estuary, connecting the uncertain tides of life to the stream of consciousness.

 

They call her inconstant. Faithless and lost. Sometimes manipulative. Often hollow.

 

Day one, the tide is low and her feet dance upon the shores, head held above the sky. She is high, like the lost balloon at a fair. Euphoric, independent. A reunion between her and herself.

Yet, day thirty-one, the tide is swelling and her round face is sinking beneath the flat edges of the salty ocean. She is low, like the anchor of a ship. Despondent, dependent. A parting between her and herself.

The human body is said to be buoyant. Its density is less than water, salty or fresh, which makes the vessel float. Yet she is a scientific anomaly. Never one nor the other, never floating nor sinking, Schrodinger’s Cat as a twenty-three year old woman.

Girl.

Child.

Adult.

Person.

On day fifty-seven, she is emptied, drought in an area thirsting. She dates a man, with the hopes that he will fertilize her shores and bring vibrancy back onto her lands. She then dates a woman, with the hopes that she will carry buckets of water upon her shoulders and methodically renew the deadened stream.

She dates herself, her hand, her razor.

And once again, she flows.